THE  MAN  AND  THE  LAND. 


SACRIFICE  AND  TRUE  GLORY. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


https://archive.org/details/manlandsacrificeOOcumm 


THE  MAN  AND  THE  LAND. 


REMARKS  OF  JOS.  B.  CUMMING  AT  THE  REUNION  OF  THE  SUR- 
VIVORS OF  THE  FIFTH  GEORGIA  REGIMENT,  AT  AUGUSTA, 
AUGUST  30,  1883. 


My  Comrades:  It  has  been  given  out  through  the  press  that 
I was  to  make  an  address  to  you  today.  The  little  I might  have 
to  say  has  been  heralded  by  the  high-sounding  title  of  “oration.” 
I am  sorry  that  anything  of  this  sort  has  been  done.  It  may 
have  aroused  expectations  which  I cannot  satisfy.  I have  pre- 
pared neither  address  nor  oration.  I have  had  neither  time  nor 
inclination  for  either.  I hasten  to  remove  any  wrong  impres- 
sion which  this  last  expression  may  make.  Of  course,  I do  not 
mean  to  say  that  I am  ‘not  glad  we  have  met  again,  or  that  I 
altogether  regret  we  have  survived.  I mean  only  that  I have  a 
poor  opinion  of  “speechifying”  at  all  times,  and  especially  at  a 
reunion  of  men,  who  were  originally  assembled  for  deeds,  not 
words.  The  men  of  words,  as  such,  were  entirely  out  of  place 
in  those  days,  and  men  of  action  were  demanded  by  the  exigen- 
cies of  the  hour.  Speech  is  a plentiful  commodity  at  all  time  in 
this  country — utterly  worthless  in  such  times  as  we  are  here  to 
commemorate,  and  entirely  too  cheap  even  in  the  piping  times 
of  peace.  The  word  “address”  is  painfully  suggestive  to  my 
mind  of  weary  and  bored  audiences,  and  “oration”  conjures  up 
at  once  the  conventional  Fourth  of  July  celebration,  the  glories 
of  which  have  .perceptibly  waned  in  these  latter  times.  Please 
dismiss  all  apprehension  of  either  of  these  nuisances.  Five  min- 
utes will  cover  all  the  time  I shall  abstract  from  the  pleasanter 
occupations  of  the  hour.  The  talk,  which  used  to  run  from 
mouth  to  mouth  around  the  camp  fire,  the  humor  and  the  jest. 


2 


which  enlivened  the  bivouac,  the  light-hearted  chat,  which  no 
weariness  of  the  march,  no  shortness  of  rations,  no  heat,  no 
cold,  no  imminence  of  deadly  conflict  could  suppress — these  be 
the  appropriate  occupations  of  this  occasion;  and  an  oration 
would  be  as  much  out  of  place  as  used  to  be  the  occasional  black 
beaver  hat,  that  wandered  unwarily  into  a Confederate  camp, 
and  a general  outcry  of  “Fold  up  that  oration,”  would  not  be 
less  appropriate  than  our  old  familiar  slogan,  “Come  down  out 
of  that  stove-pipe.” 

But  it  seems  that  I am  expected  to  say  something,  and  if  I 
am  to  speak,  too  many  solemn  shadows  rise  before  me  as  I turn 
my  face  to  the  past — the  camp,  the  battle  field— for  me  to  be 
tempted  into  levity  by  the  reminiscence  of  an  old  jest  current  in 
every  Confederate  camp.  I shall  endeavor  to  present  a few 
serious  thoughts;  but,  in  doing  so,  I shall  not  attempt  to  play 
the  historian  and  speak  of  foughten  fields,  however  proud  as  a 
Fifth  Georgia  man  I may  be  of  those  memories.  I prefer  to 
contemplate  the  moral,  the  spiritual,  the  sentimental  aspects  of 
those  tremendous  times. 

Do  I not  voice  the  feeling  of  every  Confederate  heart,  or  do  I 
only  speak  for  myself,  when  I say  that  that  period  of  my  life  is 
the  one  with  which  I am  most  nearly  satisfied?  I take  my  own 
career  as  that  of  the  average  Confederate  soldier — nothing  bril- 
liant, nothing  dazzling  in  it;  but  a persistent,  steady  effort  to  do 
my  duty — an  effort  persevered  in  in  the  midst  of  privation,  hard- 
ship and  danger.  If  ever  I was  unselfish,  it  was  then.  If  ever 
I was  capable  of  self-denial,  it  was  then.  If  ever  I was  able  to 
trample  on  self-indulgence,  it  was  then.  If  ever  I was  strong  to 
make  sacrifices,  even  unto  death,  it  was  in  those  days.  And  if 
I w7ere  called  upon  to  say  on  the  peril  of  my  soul  when  it  lived 
its  highest  life,  when  it  was  least  faithless  to  true  manhood, 
when  it  was  most  loyal  to  the  best  part  of  man’s  nature,  I would 
answer:  “In  those  days  when  I followed  yon  bullet-pierced  flag 
through  its  shifting  fortunes  of  victory  and  defeat." 

I believe  this  would  be  the  sentiment  of  every  true  Confed- 
erate. And  what  I say  of  the  Confederate  soldier  is  true  also  of 


3 


the  land  he  fought  for.  Those  will  be  noted — whether  we  con- 
sider all  the  past,  or  in  imagination  scan  all  the  future — as  the 
days  of  its  greatest  glory.  Not  the  glory  merely  of  victories  of 
inferior  over  superior  forces,  or  of  triumphs  won  by  the  weak 
from  the  strong;  but  the  glory  of  devotion  and  sacrifice.  The 
bright  sky  above  us  will  doubtless  in  the  years  to  come  look 
down  on  this  country  and  see  it  far  richer  than  now — its  ham- 
lets grown  into  towns,  its  villages  into  cities,  primeval  forests 
changed  into  fruitful  fields,  its  natural  resources  converted  into 
accumulated  wealth,  its  population  multiplied  manifold.  But  if 
beyond  and  above  this  bending  sky  there  resides  an  Eternal 
Intelligence,  that  regards  the  lands  through  all  ages,  and  meas- 
ures the  nations  by  other  standards  than  those  of  wealth  and 
success,  it  will  note  that  the  time  of  this  Southern  land’s  true 
glory  will  not  be  those  coming  days  of  wealth  and  teeming 
millions;  but  that  time  has  been,  and  was  when  its  cities  were  in 
ashes,  its  fields  were  wasted,  each  home  a house  of  mourning, 
and  the  smoke  and  the  blood  of  sacrifice  covered  the  land. 

I know  that  such  sentiments  as  I have  been  uttering  are  not 
altogether  popular  and  fashionable  in  these  latter  times.  It  has 
come  to  be  considered  the  proper  thing  to  “shake  hands  across 
the  bloody  chasm,”  whatever  that  high-sounding  ceremony 
may  be,  and  to  “fraternize,”  though  this  latter  performance 
seems  to  be  fatally  associated  with  a great  deal  of  sentimental 
twaddle.  Well,  let  them  shake  if  they  choose,  there  is  no  law 
against  shaking;  let  them  fraternize  if  they  will — how  beautiful 
it  is  for  brethren  to  dwell  together  in  unity.  But  I take  leave 
to  believe,  or  at  least  to  hope,  that  the  sentiments  current  on 
such  occasions  have  their  fountain  in  the  convivial  punch  bowl, 
rather  than  in  the  loyal  Confederate  heart;  and  I trust  that  on 
future  occasions,  however  much  Southern  men  may  appreciate 
courtesies,  and  though  the  proprieties  of  the  hour  may  impose 
reticence  of  their  real  feelings,  no  expressions  will  be  used  to 
discredit  this  sentiment,  which  is,  or  ought  to  be,  in  every  loyal 
Confederate  heart,  viz:  The  North  is  rich  and  powerful,  but  the 
South  won  greater  victories  than  did  the  North,  and  made  sac- 


4 


rifices  of  which  the  North  not  even  dreamed.  We  are  not 
ashamed,  but  we  are  proud,  and  if  we  have  tears  to  shed  they 
are  not  tears  of  repentance  for  our  sins. 

Well,  we  have  survived.  This  fact  seems  to  be  sufficiently 
apparent  How  many  men,  as  good,  as  true,  as  brave,  as  worthy 
to  live  as  we,  have  we  survived!  It  would  be  the  convention- 
ally proper  thing  to  say  we  will  drop  a tear  to  their  memory.  I 
have  no  such  phrase  to  use,  nor  any  other  which  assumes  as  a 
necessary  fact  that  there  is  advantage  in  survival.  How  many 
a sailor  has  ridden  out  the  storm  only  to  meet  tidings  of  death 
and  desolation  in  the  port!  How  many  of  us,  recalling  some 
time  and  place  of  deadly  peril,  where  we  had  made  up  our  minds 
that  we  must  fall,  have  not  felt  at  times  that  it  would  have  been 
better  for  us  to  have  sunk  then  and  there  into  a soldier’s  grave! 
Who  will  be  so  presumptuous  as  to  say,  when  he  recalls  some 
comrade  falling  by  his  side,  that  the  bullet,  which  stretched  him 
on  the  field,  was  not  his  truest  friend,  clothing  him  then  and 
there  with  imperishable  honor,  and  providing  him  a lasting 
refuge  from  unnumbered  ills,  from  deadly  sorrow!  If  I should 
use  words  of  pity  for  those  honorable  departed,  doubtless  more 
hearts  than  one  among  us  would  protest  that  envy,  not  pity, 
was  the  word.  But  whether  pity  or  envy,  certainly  honor — 
honor  from  the  survivors  to  those  whom  they  survived. 


